


your circuit's dead, there's something wrong.

by strangethetimes



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Canon Compliant, Clown Induced Amnesia, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Emails, Hurt No Comfort, I Cannot Stress that Enough, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, so many feelings, so many references, this is like the opposite of a feel good fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27805069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangethetimes/pseuds/strangethetimes
Summary: in which Eddie sends emails to Richie after he leaves for college and gets no response,then Richie sends emails to Eddie after Derry and gets no response.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	1. 1994

**Author's Note:**

> this was mostly a vent fic for me over old shit, i used a lot of past journal entries for it. but i felt like doing something sad sooo

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** ekaspbrak@compuserve.com   
**to:** trashmouthtozier@prodigy.net   
**date:** 09/06/94   
**subject:** Hey, this is not a test. This is rock and roll.

Hey, Trashmouth! How’s LA treating you so far? Have you burned it to the ground yet?  
I ran into Maggie at the Stop-N-Shop and she said you’re set to take a lot of cool classes (she also said that move-in day was a real pain in the ass). Is it tough to adjust? I bet LA is pretty, at least in the sense that it isn’t Derry. Realistically, that city’s as filthy as the underside of your bed. I don’t even wanna know what your poor roommate is gonna put up with.   
Speaking of, have you met them yet? Are they nice? I hope you don’t get too caught up in all those Hollywood personalities and forget about us like Bev, Ben, and Bill did. None of the other Losers have bothered to answer me about what their colleges are like yet, but they’re probably busy too. I’ve been working like a goddamn dog to try and pay for this shit hole’s community college. I don’t know if I can keep it up for four years but, hopefully, I can try and transfer after a few semesters and won’t need Mom to cosign the loans.   
I’m so jealous of you, Richie. I wish I could’ve gotten out and left too. Derry’s only saving grace is Mike, and I can’t see him that much. He’s taking classes at the community college too (I think he’s gonna major in library science, whatever that is). He hangs out when he can but, between the farm and school, he doesn’t get the chance very often.   
Is it fucked up that I kind of miss high school? At least most of us were here then. Is it even more fucked up that I miss that summer? Not the IT part, obviously, but the togetherness of it all. I’ll stop rambling, though. You’ve probably got better shit to do than listen to me get weirdly nostalgic about traumatic moments in our lives.   
Message me when you can, I’ll be around to answer whenever I’m free.

Yours,  
Eddie

* * *

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** ekaspbrak@compuserve.com   
**to:** trashmouthtozier@prodigy.net   
**date:** 09/22/94   
**subject:** Hey, hey! Now, don't you tell me you don't remember me because I sure as heckfire remember you.

I should’ve expected you to, like, never check your email. I can send stuff to your school account if you look at it more often, just let me know. I’m not mad though, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure it’s super surreal to pick up everything and move across the country. You’re far away from literally everything you’ve ever known, I’d be freaking out if I were in your shoes.  
I’m up to my fuckin’ knees in work here. I picked up a second job at the nearest mechanic’s shop and, I have to say, I think it’s what I was born to do. I might quit school altogether and just do that forever. Mom _hates_ it (which makes me like it even more, to be honest). I come home covered in oil and dirt, she practically makes me wash my clothes the second I step through the door.   
I saw a red ‘70 Mustang the other day and you would’ve loved it, but I think that’s what I’ll start saving my money for. Super long term, you know? I don’t wanna be that impulsive and drop out just for a job I’ve spent two weeks doing, but it’s a possibility.   
I think I wanna go to school in Manhattan. I was researching colleges there and saw that NYU has a really good business program, apparently. Maybe I can get my MBA and open up my own shop, settle in upstate New York or something.   
She’s been really insufferable. I can’t tell if it’s because of the job or school, probably both. She keeps trying to treat me like a kid and all we’ve been doing is fighting. I don’t know if I can take it if it keeps up like this. I might just room with Mike until I have the money to get my own place. At that point, though, why not just move to Manhattan?   
I feel like all I’ve been talking about is my bullshit. How’s UCLA going? I hope you’re getting along with your roommate. I’ve been imagining their name is Dennis, and they’re like a super cool film major who wears red leather jackets all the time. Maybe they’re just as messy as you and you have to hire a hazmat team to clean your dorm every week. They probably even have the same shitty taste in comedies as you.   
I hope you’re having a good time. I can’t wait to hear from you, Rich. It’s been really hard since you left. But, I’ll bore you about that another time.

Yours,  
Eddie

* * *

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** ekaspbrak@compuserve.com   
**to:** trashmouthtozier@prodigy.net   
**date:** 10/13/94   
**subject:** Heeeeeeeere’s Eddie!

Hey, Richie. How are you? How’s school? I miss you, blah, blah, blah.  
Things have been pretty okay here, all things considered. I got a raise at work a few days ago, now I’m at ten bucks an hour. How fucking insane is that? I could cover a month’s rent with just a forty-hour week! I could just take time off of school for a semester or two and save up until I have enough to move to Manhattan.   
I’m seriously thinking about that too, because Mom’s getting worse. She’s been trying to forbid me from going to work. What the fuck is that bullshit? I’m eighteen fucking years old and she thinks she can just order me around and ruin my life. I’ve been hanging out at Mike’s most days, unless I absolutely have to go home. I’m worried he’s gonna get sick of me at some point.   
Are _you_ sick of me? Is that why you haven’t been answering? I’ve been trying to think of all the reasons I could’ve pissed you off, but I can’t really think of any besides the day you got your acceptance letter and, even then, that was months ago. I’m trying to brush it off, to just accept that you’re really busy or something, but it’s getting hard. I haven’t heard from you since you left, did you know that?

Yours,  
Eddie

P.S. I’ve been talking to your mom a lot lately, she’s got a bad case of empty nest syndrome. It’s interesting that you’ve got the time to call her and not me.

* * *

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** ekaspbrak@compuserve.com   
**to:** trashmouthtozier@prodigy.net   
**date:** 10/28/94   
**subject:** Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?

I’m really starting to worry that I did something wrong.

* * *

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** ekaspbrak@compuserve.com   
**to:** trashmouthtozier@prodigy.net   
**date:** 11/19/94   
**subject:** Are you there Richie? It’s me, Eddie.

My soul hurts. The sky is dark, the streetlights have all burnt out, and my soul hurts. I used to talk about you like you put the stars in the sky and now the stars are gone. I used to talk about you like you put the waves in the ocean and now the waves are gone too. I was _broken_ when we met. You were the first person to talk to me that entire year, because everyone else’s parents had heard how crazy my mom was and wanted nothing to do with me. Imagine how fucked up that is for a child to know.   
I found a home in you and I lived in it for ten good years. But, then you left. You left and my home is up in flames. My lungs are full of smoke and I can feel the rafters collapsing on me, I taste the poisonous air too. It’s burning, it’s burning, it’s burning to the ground and I can’t rebuild in the same lot because you evicted me the second you fell in love with a life away from Derry. Or, is it a life away from me?   
So, we’re best friends for more than half of our lives and, suddenly, it just stops? You kept me from running away from home for all of high school, begging me not to leave you behind, and then you left. You left me, and I’m _sorry_ for reopening those barely-closed wounds but I thought you’d fucking care enough about me not to bail! You touched my heart, Richie, and then you _left._ _  
_ How am I supposed to feel? Because, right now, I feel like I’m gonna puke. I’m angry and I’m sad and I’m disappointed and I’m scared. I want to ask what made you stop talking to me, but I don’t think I’d be able to bear hearing you tell me that you got sick of dealing with me or that I wasn’t important enough to remember.   
If I knew that the last time I saw you was going to be it, I would have hugged you tighter. I don’t think I would’ve let go, because I don’t know what to do now. I didn’t think that friends could dump you. Turns out they can. It’s worse than a relationship ending, not that I’d know, but at least then they tell you that they’re leaving and that it’s over — they don’t leave you stranded for _months_ wondering if they still want you in their life — and at least you get closure.   
I haven’t gotten any of that. You know what I got instead? An empty inbox and sad, pitying glances from the one best friend I have left, like he can see how fucking pathetic I am without you but doesn’t want to say anything. And Mike _is_ too nice to say anything, he lets me follow him around like a lost puppy until I think I’m bothering him and go home. I heard a rumor about myself that, apparently, I’m gay for him, because that’s how visible it is to other people too.   
I just want to know what I did, Richie.   
Did I not keep myself on a tight enough leash? Was I as painfully obvious as I thought I was? Were my jokes not funny enough? Did you think our bickering was serious? Or, was I just never your favorite and you lost interest the second Bill and Stan were gone?   
It’s eating me inside, I think I’m decomposing, and I want so desperately for it to stop. My insides are gray and rotted through and through — right to the goddamn core. No medicine could fix that, but I’d almost want it to.   
I can’t think of a strong enough word to describe how lonely I’ve been. Desolate, forlorn, and bereft are nothing compared to what I’ve been feeling. The contents of my mind are heavy enough to make my body want to crash through the earth’s crust. At the end of the day, when I have a bunch of things to talk about and no one to tell, I feel a hole being ripped through my chest that’s shaped like you. I have so much love to give and nobody wants it. Nobody wants me, not even my best friend.   
Maybe I should see a therapist.

Yours,  
Eds

P.S. If you come home for Thanksgiving and run into me, I’m gonna sock you in the fucking nose.

* * *

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** ekaspbrak@compuserve.com   
**to:** trashmouthtozier@prodigy.net   
**date:** 12/25/94   
**subject:** Can you hear me, Major Tom?

The truth is, I still think about you a lot. It’s gotten a little better, but I can’t tell if I’m getting over your leaving or I was just too busy to focus on anything but not failing my exams (it’s probably the second one). It’s some ungodly hour of the night and I have a towel stuffed under my door so my mom doesn’t wander past on her way to the bathroom and see the blue light of the monitor. I’m hunched over the keyboard trying to find a way to pour my heart out without sounding like as much of a fucking jackass as I did last time.  
It’s too quiet for my brain to leave me alone. It’s _always_ like that, if I’m honest. I’m almost always thinking about how much better things would be if you were still here. And that’s a selfish thing to say, I know, but I really do wish you were back. Somehow, it was easier when we saw each other every day, even though I always swore it wasn’t.   
I’ve been trying, Richie. I really have. I know that you must be busy at UCLA or having the time of your life or both, but I thought you’d still talk to me. Then again, maybe it’s my fault. I guess it was stupid to think that I was cool enough to be your friend after you got out of Derry. I mean, who the fuck am I compared to any of the people you meet there?   
Maggie says you don’t call anymore, that you haven’t come home for any holiday so far either. Are you too good for us now? Spent four fucking months in LA and suddenly you’re better than everyone? I can’t fucking believe you, you know. I really thought you were different. I wasn’t surprised when Bev bailed on us after eighth grade, she was always out of our league. I wasn’t that surprised when Ben bailed on us after he moved either. Bill really hurt, I’ll admit it. So did Stan.   
But, you?   
God, Richie, I want to hate you so fucking much. You’re such an asshole and I wish you would’ve just ended things before you left if this is what you planned on doing. It would’ve hurt, but it wouldn’t have been like this _—_ this fucking radio silence that makes me feel like I’m stranded on an island all alone. You _promised_ you would keep in touch. What the fuck happened to that?

Yours,  
Eds

P.S. Merry Christmas. I hope yours is miles better than mine.

* * *

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** ekaspbrak@compuserve.com   
**to:** trashmouthtozier@prodigy.net   
**date:** 01/08/95   
**subject:** This is Eddie, last survivor of the Nostromo, signing off

I’m sending this after almost half a year of no response, it’d be such a “Richie” thing to do if you ended up responding this time. So, here are the things I’ll never be able to say to you in person. Here are the things that I’ll write now and obsess over later, terrified that I said it wrong. You would click send without a second thought, if it were you, and I wish that I was brave enough to be like that. But, I’m not. I’ll probably write and rewrite this until it’s as close to perfect as it can get, then still find faults with it.  
Do you remember when you got your acceptance letter? I tried so hard to be happy for you, but I was dying inside and you knew it. Instead of saying anything, you got mad at me and we had a huge blowout. I think we stopped speaking for two days and it was the longest we’d ever gone (if only I knew, huh?). I never told you, but I was mad because I was scared. I was terrified that you’d leave and not wanna be my friend anymore. I’ll let the current situation speak to that all by itself.   
But, I’m not writing this to be mean. I’ve been trying not to be so angry lately. I’m writing this to tell you something that I should’ve told you a long time ago, and to tell you that, this time, you probably shouldn’t respond to it. Not that I wouldn’t love to hear from you, but because, if there’s any possibility of us still being friends, this would ruin it.   
I’ve been in love with you for the better half of my life.   
Maybe that’s a really dumb thing to say. What the fuck does a teenager know about love, anyway? You swore you were in love with Maureen Thompson in the tenth grade and you only dated for a month. But, it _feels_ right to say, so I’m going to stick with it. It feels so good to say that it’s all I want to type.   
I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.   
Maybe it’s a bit overkill and melodramatic, so what? I’ve been waiting to say it since I’ve met you and I’ve almost said it far too many times. One of those times was the night before you left, and I kick myself every day for not being brave enough. I wonder a lot what would’ve happened if I had the balls to tell you, and my brain changes the narrative each time. I’ve been wondering if the reason you stopped talking to me is because you could already tell, but that’s not fair to you.   
I’m moving to Manhattan next week. I’ll send you my address once I’m done staying in motels ‘til I find an apartment. I can’t take it in Derry anymore and I have more than enough money saved to get out, so, I guess this is it. I thought I’d feel better than I do, but I mostly just feel the same.   
I had to say this before I left, before any monumental change happened in my life beyond what already has. I still dream about your eyes, no matter how horribly cliché it sounds, and I spend far too much time trying to remember the constellations I could draw in your freckles. Maybe if I get this off my chest, it’ll stop hurting me. I doubt it, honestly, but what’s the harm in trying?   
The only way I’ll stop loving you, Richie Tozier, is if my brain got rid of you entirely, and that’s not something I want to try. I adore the memories of you that I have, even if I don’t get to make any new ones. So, on the off chance that you do read these, and on the off chance that you’ll respond, I want you to know that I’d answer. I’ll always be up to making new memories, especially if they’re good. God knows we could use those.

Yours,  
Eds

* * *

**[NEW EMAIL!]**

**from:** flph826.prodigy.net   
**to:** ekaspbrak@compuserve.com   
**date:** 01/08/95   
**subject:** Error 550

Address not found.  
Your message wasn't delivered to trashmouthtozier@prodigy.net because the address couldn't be found, or is unable to receive mail.


	2. 2016

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** trshmthtzr@yahoo.com   
**to:** ekaspbrak@gmail.com   
**date:** 06/20/16   
**subject:** Day 1

My therapist said that doing this might help. I’m seeing a therapist now, how fucking out of whack is that? Actually trying to work through my problems doesn’t really feel like a “me” thing to do, does it? I’m trying not to listen to the part of my brain that tells me to stop going. The rest of the Losers — what’s left of us, at least — are encouraging me to get better, so I guess I’m doing it for them. I don’t really care about me anymore.

You know, I learned a lot since I got back from Maine, even if it’s only been a week or so. Did you know I’m a total asshole? I’m sure you could’ve guessed. It turns out that the whole “freezing at the age you get famous” thing is true. I keep looking back at all of my old specials, at my life before Derry, and I want to punch that guy right in the fucking nose. I hate him, and it makes me understand why  _ you  _ hated him too. He wasn’t me. Or, maybe he was, but he’s not anymore, not since I remembered.

That’s how I’ve been thinking about my life lately, the before and the after.

The before Richie is a sad sack of shit who never should’ve amounted to anything. The after Richie is a sad sack of shit who doesn’t know what to do now. I’ve been working on my own material, at least I can say that much.

I think you’d like it, more honesty and less dick jokes (even if there are a few, I can’t help it). But, who can say? You’d probably make a joke about throwing away the cult following I had for an overrated sense of truth, which is true, but I know you wouldn’t really mean it. You never did.

Love Always,   
Richie

* * *

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** trshmthtzr@yahoo.com   
**to:** ekaspbrak@gmail.com   
**date:** 06/28/16   
**subject:** Day 9

I flew to Manhattan last night. I roamed around the city, wondering if I was standing in a spot you stumbled upon once. I got really drunk when I was back at the hotel, Bev tried to talk me out of it, but I couldn’t help it. I knew that the morning would be difficult, and it  _ was,  _ Eds. It was unbearable, even without the hangover.

Today was your funeral. Your wife gave a really nice eulogy, but it didn’t sound like she was talking about you. I wanted to say something, but the Losers kept me on a tight leash. We’re lucky we got to go at all with the way she reacted to us before. She had us sat in the back, out of the way, and I got angry and left about halfway through. Bill couldn’t get me to come back, so he sat with me on the chapel steps until it was time to go.

You’re still under Neibolt. Tried as they may, they couldn’t find you when they searched, so your casket was empty. It was just for show. I’m almost glad, I wouldn’t have been able to look at you lying there. I probably would’ve puked and gotten kicked out.

I wanted to get kicked out, I think. I wanted to make a scene. None of those people really knew you, not how we did, and seeing them pretend to have loved you so dearly — to  _ understand you —  _ was more than I could handle.

They’re insufferable dicks, the whole lot of them, looking at me like I was showing too much emotion at a fucking funeral. How is that even possible? People are supposed to cry at funerals!

Maybe it was just because they didn’t know me. Or, maybe it’s because they did. Imagine if a random celebrity crashed your coworker’s funeral, I’m sure that’s what they were all thinking. They didn’t know how much you meant to me, how much you still mean to me.

I’m flying back home tomorrow morning. I don’t like being here anymore. It feels tainted. But, honestly, LA doesn’t feel right either. I might move. I’ve been thinking about dropping off the face of the earth and living in a cabin on one of Michigan’s lakes. Just disappear into total obscurity, you know? Bill says I’m melodramatic, but I don’t like my life anymore. Maybe starting over is exactly what I need.

I’ll keep you posted, I guess.

Love Always,   
Richie

* * *

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** trshmthtzr@yahoo.com   
**to:** ekaspbrak@gmail.com   
**date:** 07/09/16   
**subject:** Day ???

I’m drunk and I miss you. I’m very, very drunk and the light of my phone hurts my head and I really, truly miss you. That’s what makes it so hard, Eddie. I think about you all the time. My therapist says that time will help me move on, but I don’t know that I want to. Twenty-seven years passed and, even though I forgot, I never…

I got Stan’s letter. We all got one, but each ends with something different. I can’t stop reading it. I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop drinking.

I don’t want to feel anymore. I wish it was all big, black, empty nothingness. It feels like someone stole all the tenderest pieces of me, like they shattered them into fragments I can never get back. I  _ hate  _ feeling like this. I hate everything. I hate everything. I hate everything.

I want you back. I want Stan back. I want to be thirteen again, before everything was all fucked up, and I want to scream at us all to get out while we still can, to never bother with IT and just escape.

I don’t know if I can do this. Being strong is hard. Being  _ brave _ is hard. How did you ever manage to do it so well?

Love Always,   
Richie

* * *

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** trshmthtzr@yahoo.com   
**to:** ekaspbrak@gmail.com   
**date:** 08/18/16   
**subject:** Day 60, I think

I came out to the world. I still don’t know if that was a mistake, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Why should I give a shit about my career anymore, you know? You’re not here to see any of it.

My therapist has been talking to me about anti-depressants and rehab, she says I drink too much. I’m inclined to agree with her, but I still don’t want to go. Being a drunk is better than being aware all the time, at least when I’m drunk I can temporarily forget how much I miss you.

I don’t know. The Losers might make me go anyway. I guess we’ll see.

Love Always,   
Richie

* * *

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** trshmthtzr@yahoo.com   
**to:** ekaspbrak@gmail.com   
**date:** 09/05/16   
**subject:** Day 78

I’m in rehab. Being sober isn’t all that’s it’s cracked up to be, but I’ll bother you with my “woe is me” bullshit some other time.

Love Always,   
Richie

* * *

**[EMAIL SENT!]**

**from:** trshmthtzr@yahoo.com   
**to:** ekaspbrak@gmail.com   
**date:** 10/10/16   
**subject:** Day 113

I think this will be my last email, at least for a little while. I keep seeing your little icon in the corner of the screen and I don’t think my heart can take it. Sobriety didn’t last. I wish I could say that everyone is surprised about that, but I guess I’m a consistent piece of shit if nothing else.

There’s something I have to say to you, something I’ve been wanting to say for decades but never got the chance. Or, maybe I  _ did  _ have chances — plenty of them — but never had the balls to take them.

I keep thinking about the last thing you said to me and I’m angry. I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know! What was I supposed to know? I wish you’d fucking tell me, because I can’t figure it out. Your voice haunts my dreams. It shows up in all my nightmares, just those same seven words. Maybe it doesn’t matter. I try to convince myself of that.

You were the best of us all, and now you’re dead. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. I never said that, but I’m saying it now. I should have acted like it — more than I did, at least. Sometimes, I wonder if you knew, if you saw right through me, but other times I can’t bear to think about it.

I loved you, Eds.

I loved you before I forgot, I loved you while I forgot, I loved you when I remembered, and I still love you now.

I’ve loved you for thirty fucking years and I thought nothing would feel worse than finding out you were married or knowing you’d never love me back or any of the other stupid fucking bullshit that I thought about. I was wrong. Losing you, for real, is the worst fucking thing I’ve ever felt.

I can’t forget your heartbeat, how it stilled beneath my hands. I can’t forget how your chest rose and fell for the last time while I held you. Sometimes, I swear, I can still feel your blood on my skin. I almost wish that I did — it was warm, white-hot like the butterflies you’d give me.

I kept the glasses, they’re cracked and stained with you. I never cleaned them and I can’t bear to throw them away. The same can be said about that yellow shirt, though it’s mostly red now, and it’s hanging up in my closet like it’s not the worst fucking thing I own.

You should’ve left. You should’ve abandoned our oath and gone home. You should’ve  _ lived.  _ I wish it were me, Eds. I wish it was me who fucking died down there instead. No one gives a shit about a washed-up comedian who was never funny to begin with. No one gives a shit about me, not the way they did about you. And maybe that’s unfair to say, because I know the Losers love me, but I still think it’s true.

I don’t know what to do with myself. Maybe I’ll go back to rehab, maybe I’ll drink myself to death. I just know that I needed to say all this. Before I can get better or before I let myself go over the deep end, I needed to say this. I wish you could’ve heard it yourself, but it’s a little late for that. I hope this is good enough. For once, I hope I’m good enough.

Love Always,   
Richie

* * *

**[NEW EMAIL!]**

**from:** mailer-daemon@googlemail.com   
**to:** trshmthtzr@yahoo.com   
**date:** 10/10/16   
**subject:** Delivery Status Notification (Failure)

Address Not Found.

Your message wasn't delivered to  **ekaspbrak@gmail.com** because the address could not be found or is unable to receive mail.


End file.
